I don't know what prompted me to post this atrocity. This is quite possibly the weirdest thing I have ever written. I feel like an evil gremlin's taken over my body and is posting this crappy crackness for me…
First of all, this fic focuses on bulimic!Izaya. Considering that, it's only fair to warn you that this story will contain potentially triggering material. If that's not your cup of tea, please, PLEASE, turn back now.
I promised to write a oneshot about Izaya for my sister. There was originally a goofy line about her being madly in love with him right here, but she made me delete it before posting. Whatever. She thinks he's awesome, and for someone reason I let myself be wrangled into writing this for her, despite the fact that I'm doing NaNoWriMo and already overloaded with writing (and schoolwork) as it is.
Writing in present tense is fun.
Song lyrics are from 'Weak and Powerless' by A Perfect Circle.
According to some of the stuff I've seen online, Izaya is, apparently, bulimic in the light novels. Not too sure what I think about that…there's a part of me that can see it, because he loves having a sense of control and he's also freakishly skinny. But at the same time…ehhhhh, I dunno. Just doesn't seem to fit. Oh well, it makes for good fanfiction material, so let's write it! Honestly, I had no idea how to go about writing bulimic!Izaya, so I just did the best I could. Hopefully it doesn't suck too badly.
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(Tilling my own grave to keep me level)
When the first piece of ootoro touches his tongue, he feels his stomach tremble.
The fatty meat dissolves in his mouth. He takes another bite, and another, leaning back and sighing with pleasure.
(Jam another dragon down the hole)
He can't quite remember when he began this, or how, or why. It seems normal to him now, so routine that his stomach has begun to plead with him whenever he runs the bathwater. But it stays down, caged and cowering, until Izaya gives it permission to do otherwise.
(Digging to the rhythm and the echo of a solitary siren)
His hair is still wet, and water is dripping onto his face, droplets of moisture stroking his bare shoulders. He hasn't bothered to put on a shirt.
Because it would just get dirty…
He stops, a piece of ootoro raised halfway to his lips.
(One that pushes me along and leaves me so…)
Laughter bubbles up in his throat, gleeful and childish, as he pops the sushi into his mouth. The rush is beginning to tickle its way up his spine, making him feel lightheaded, almost silly. The fact that he can maintain such flawless control in this situation is a testament to his inhumanity.
(Little angel go away)
His stomach whimpers silently as it swells. It doesn't like being this full, ugly and bloated; it wants to be small and shiny-pink and empty, light enough to float. Izaya pacifies it, shushing it playfully as he takes another bite. Just a little more. Just a little longer.
(The devil has my ear today)
It hurts, being stretched like this, his insides churning and frothing and sobbing, another sharp, aching pang nipping at him every time he swallows. He doesn't particularly mind anymore.
(I'll never hear a word you say)
The last bite, Izaya thinks as he closes his eyes and smiles, always feels the best, despite the fact that he doesn't even taste it.
(He promised I would find a little solace)
The kitchen faucet groans along with his stomach when he turns it on. He drinks the first glass, and the third, and the twelfth. His stomach screams.
Izaya leans back, fiddling with his switchblade and leaving scratches in the expensive countertop, and he admits to himself that this feels damn good.
He doesn't believe in scales, but he does believe in mirrors. He admires himself, the way his slightly distended belly pushes out against the waistline of his jeans. He wants to laugh.
(And some peace of mind)
He knows how most of the humans do this, kneeling down and worshipping in front of their porcelain idols. Izaya has no intention of doing any such thing. He remains standing, bending his waist just enough. His stomach claws at his ribcage, let me out let me out…
(Whatever just so long as I don't feel so…)
Dessert
One long, pale finger slides to the back of his throat, and presses, gently stroking the exposed redness, caressing it like a lover.
Go on, he whispers.
(Desperate and ravenous)
And finally, finally, his stomach exhales with relief, sour acid washing up into his mouth. It keeps coming and coming and it can't come fast enough as the sweet exhilaration of perfect, perfect control sings through him.
(I'm weak and powerless)
Izaya Orihara vomits exactly twenty-four hours of his life away.
When it's over, every muscle in his body aches just that little bit more.
It doesn't really matter.
He sighs and looks at himself, wire framework visible beneath his skin, his ribs jutting out above his abdomen, the brittle bones of his wrist showing themselves.
(Over you…)
His stomach sighs too, sore and so tired of this.
I don't want
"Shhhh," he whispers soothingly, rubbing soft circles on his still barely-swollen belly. "Of course you do."